


Before we're due a journey

by Mozzarella



Series: Wrapped in Warmer Hearts and Furs [2]
Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Friendship, Love, M/M, Minor Character Death, Past Relationship(s)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-07-17
Updated: 2014-02-11
Packaged: 2017-12-20 12:05:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 8,581
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/887070
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mozzarella/pseuds/Mozzarella
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The events leading up to the Hobbit, from the battle onward, with Bofur trying desperately not to lose hope and with Thorin trying to gain hope back. </p><p>This is a story of their brief encounters over the years. Sequel to "Led by a warm, ringed hand".</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Azanulbizar

**Author's Note:**

> So now I'm giggling because there's a Bofur's Hat character tag. Enjoy!
> 
> Also, Bofur makes a friend.

Bofur wept, sitting at the head of his cousin's cot, wiping the blood from Bifur's face, careful not to jostle the broken axe shard that was lodged in his skull. Against all odds, Bifur was alive, and according to the healer, he was recovering well. The only issue was the axe. "If we try to remove it, he'll almost certainly die," said the old healer, his red hair streaked with gray. "But if we leave it in, he'll have a chance. But it's touched his mind. It may change him in a way that I cannot predict. Mahal help him, and you. Pray that this wound will not damage more than your cousin's head."  
  
Bofur nodded. When Bombur came in, his hands twisting around the length of his beard braid, Bofur stood. He embraced his brother, relaxing into the comfort of his girth and the soft pillowing of his shoulder. "I'll take over for now," said Bombur softly, and Bofur nodded, taking his mattock from where it leaned against the pole and heading out.  
  
The encampment was downhill from the battlefield, but Bofur could still smell death, the scent of it roiling his already empty stomach. He counted himself among the lucky ones--he'd lost none of those he called family in the battle. His brother was safe, his dearest cousin, like a brother or father to him, alive. Of the Broadbeam clan, there were hundreds dead. Many of whom he didn't know, many of whom who he knew in passing. He was grateful, selfishly so, that he didn't count himself among the mourners who wailed for days, clutching the bodies of brothers, of fathers, sons, and lovers.  
  
"We must honor the bodies, as best we can," said one of the dwarves on the same path. He followed the slow stream of free handed dwarrows and returned to the battlefield, littered with the bodies of orcs and dwarves. There were others there, already, dragging bodies along, armor and all. They were putting them together, separating them from the taint of the orcs. They would not be given proper burials, though they would be honored, nonetheless, and their names would be remembered by their people.  
  
In the dark of the battlefield, Bofur found his hat. It had survived the fray, quashed and stained but none worse for wear. He laughed, laughed at the coincidence, at their misfortunes, laughed a joyful laugh with bitter gall. He was filled with hope, and anger, and an alarming sense of optimism.  
  
"What's so funny?" one of the surviving soldiers called, throwing bodies over his shoulders, two at a time, like sacks of rice.  
  
"I found m'hat!" Bofur called back, shaking his head and wiping the tears from his eyes.  
  
"Good luck," said the other, nodding agreeably. They both made their way to where the bodies of their fallen kin had been lain.  
  
"Surprised ye can still laugh, under the circumstances," said the other dwarf. He was exceedingly tall, his hair in a warrior's style, shaven on both sides with a line down the center.  
  
"I'm surprised you didn't clock me upside the head for it," said Bofur.  
  
"Y'weren't mocking them," the other dwarf said thoughtfully. "Y'were mourning. In yer own way."  
  
"In my own way," Bofur said, shaking his head. "We may have won the battle, but all we've earned from it is more dead. That's the greatest joke I've ever heard in my life."  
  
"No," said the other with more solemnity. "The greatest joke is seein' all of Durin's folk so low, by the greed of a dragon and the ignorance of bloody elves. The greatest joke is having to play nomad, to have no home for our own, and to risk the wrath of Dunlendings because we've no place else to go."  
  
"Some of the Longbeards're going back to the Iron Hills," said Bofur.  
  
"Aye, and we're not going with them," said the other dwarf. "We've sworn an oath of fealty to our new king."  
  
"Thrain?"  
  
"Yes," said the dwarf. "But you know what swayed the rest? The one who won them their best victory?"  
  
"Oakenshield," said Bofur, nodding.  
  
"That's right. Thorin Oakenshield. Don't think I've seen a worthier dwarf to follow."  
  
Bofur nodded once more, and after a moment's silence, held out a half gloved hand. "Bofur, of the clan Broadbeam. At yer service."  
  
"Dwalin, son of Fundin, of the clan Longbeard, at yours and your family's," said the other, gripping Bofur's arm firmly.  
  
They made their way back after a long day of hauling bodies. A couple of dwarves came up to them both and thanked them, crying profusely, for finding their brother, and a dwarrowdam, who'd been in the healing tents, thanked them as well, before carrying the body of her lover away, to bury him, no doubt.  
  
"I've never seen him, ya know," Bofur said, feeling much lighter with company. Dwalin was gruff, and intimidating, but he was easy to laugh when Bofur did and genial under his rough exterior. He told Bofur that his brother had survived the battle, and that finding him was what had given him the most hope. "Our father fell fighting," Dwalin recounted. "Always a stubborn dwarf, that one. Even with one o' those twisted orc blades gone right through his stomach, he was still bashing in orc skulls. Tryin' ta protect Prince Frerin."  
  
"He fought honorably," Bofur said, nodding sympathetically. "And so did the young prince."  
  
Dwalin hung his head. "He was never s'posed to be part'a this. He was so young. But he was a prince. He couldn'a stood by and let his kin fight without 'im. Not even Thorin could sway him. In some ways, he blames himself. King Thror wasn't his responsibility, but Frerin was his little brother. Everyone counts Thorin's act as a victory. Everyone but Thorin."  
  
"So yer a nobleman?" Bofur said, surprised. "Knowing the prince by name an' all."  
  
"More of a king's guard than anythin'," said Dwalin. "Like my da. I've known Thorin for years. He's my prince, he'll be my king one day, and he's my friend. Wish I could do somethin' for 'im."  
  
"I'd like ta do somethin'," Bofur said cheerfully, "for the dwarrow who ended the battle."  
  
Dwalin snorted. "As if his ego weren't bad enough already."  
  
"Well if anyone needs cheerin' up, it'd be prince Thorin."  
  
"That's a harder task than ya think."  
  
Bofur grinned. "Ye'd be surprised what a dwarrow like m'self can accomplish, given the chance."  
  
"Pr'haps another day," said Dwalin agreeably. "Or maybe you can try your hand at it next time ye see him. If nothin' else, I need the laugh and you need the scare."  
  
"I knew ye had a sense of humor," Bofur said. "I should tell ya, though--I've never seen 'im."  
  
"What?" Dwalin near exclaimed.  
  
"I dunno how the prince looks like."  
  
"I thought ya said you lived in Erebor."  
  
"I was young then," Bofur shrugged. "Worked in the mines. 'part from the yearly miner's celebrations, I never got ta see the nobler part of the mountain. Never got to see the king's sons, since it was my uncle that did the dealin' with the royals, not me."  
  
"In the battle?"  
  
Bofur smiled bitterly. "Too busy stayin' alive to spot a king."  
  
"Aye. Well I wish you'd seen 'im. A sight to behold, up there on the rock with his oaken branch."  
  
"I can imagine," Bofur said softly.  
  
"I'll introduce ya next time. Yer right, y'know. He deserves the joy. He's got more grief than twenty dwarrows combined weighin' on his shoulders, and the burden needs easin'."  
  
"I'll do my best ta give it," Bofur promised, waving his last and watching Dwalin go off.  
  
\----  
  
  
He was grateful for the distraction his new friendship with Dwalin afforded him. Every time he thought of his cousin, his heart shook, and when it became too much, he cried. The crying helped--he did it alone, wailed into a cot or into his hands. And when he was done, he felt an astonishing peace in him, and greeted his brother and the people around him with a smile that helped their own along.  
  
He left his hat with Bifur. It was obviously rife with luck, having survived the battle, and he laid it on Bifur's crossed hands. He still hadn't woken. Bofur and Bombur made sure he drank, or in the very least, got water down his throat, and the healer gave them some juices of fruits and meats to sustain him.  
  
It was a long while before he saw Dwalin again, but they had no time for their plans. The camp was dissipating, with dwarves returning to their homes or planning to establish new ones. There was talk of bringing the women and children to the Blue Mountains, and out of Dunland. Bofur agreed wholeheartedly with the idea, but let the dwarrows and their king deliberate as well as they could.  
  
One day, he was helping Bombur provide food for the small councils they held in the king's tent. He was surprised to see one of the dwarrows storm out, rounding the tent and settling on a jutting stone, looking out over the gray of the dead fields.  
  
After some thought, Bofur decided to take one of the bowls Bombur had been pouring out for the other dwarrows to the one sitting on the stone, silent and still, the wind picking up the muss of his hair.  
  
"Here ya go," he said softly. The dwarrow didn't turn, and only the slightest of inclines moving his head showed his acknowledgement. Bofur laid the bowl of stew down beside him. His face was partly obscured by his loose hair, dark and stringing from sweat and perhaps even the last traces of blood. Mahal knew, Bofur's own hair took nearly a week before he got the scent of the dead out of it, and this dwarrow had much more than he.  
  
"Thank you," the dwarf said, his voice a soft, low rumble, and Bofur's heart stuttered at the sound.  
  
That voice. He knew that voice. Knew it like an old memory, a hope he'd always held onto, but had not thought of in recent years.  
  
"Y--yer welcome," Bofur said. He waited for another acknowledgement, waited for the wind to die down or for the dwarf to turn his head.  
  
The aquiline nose, the thick but cut beard, the noble jut of the brow--he knew that face, even when it wasn't turned to him. He'd know it in the dark, know it from afar if he was asked.  
  
If he would only look.  
  
"Was there anything else you wanted?"  
  
When the dwarrow turned, Bofur's heart fell. There was no recognition in those deep, hooded eyes. No sign, no spark. Only grief, only the hardened look of many of the survivors of Azanulbizar.  
  
 _"Grief severs many bonds, little jewel. Grief can shroud even the purest of loves, and make it as though there is nothing left but itself and the cold it brings."_  
  
And in his eyes, Bofur saw the grief of more than twenty dwarrows. Grief that blinded him. It wasn't his fault.  
  
"Nothin', m'lord," Bofur said softly. The dwarf's brow wrinkled, studying Bofur, as if seeing him for the first time. Bombur's call echoed from afar, and Bofur gave a small bow, hiding the pain on his face. "Just... please enjoy yer meal. My brother prepared it, and he's a fine cook. No dwarrow finer."  
  
Giving many more bows than was necessary, Bofur turned tail and walked, so close to running but not quite there.  
  
Within moments, he was gone from the other dwarrow's sight.  
  
"Thorin."  
  
Thorin Oakenshield looked up, startled from his deep thoughts by his father's trusted adviser, Balin, son of Fundin.  
  
"It's good," said Balin without much conviction. "You should eat."  
  
Thorin looked down at the bowl at his side and took it in his hands, thinking of the dwarf that had given it to him. So familiar, and yet...  
  
The spark of hope in him was extinguished quickly, and soon, his grief returned with a vengeance.  
  
It couldn't have been. That dwarf was dead. He was dead, dead of dragon fire, gone from Thorin's life. Dead, just like his grandfather, and his brother. There was no hoping for better when it came to the dead. They were in Mahal's halls now.  
  
But still, the dwarrow that had stood by him for only moments, that had given him food and had looked at him with such sadness--he was familiar, somehow.  
  
For a long time, as he ate, Thorin sat there, his thoughts lingering on the other dwarf and wondering at the sensation sparking to life deep beneath the heaviness in his own heart. It was a familiar feeling, one Thorin never thought he'd feel again. He quashed it, quickly and easily. Even if... oh, even if Mahal had granted him a small reprieve, he had responsibilities. He had no time for anyone but his family and his people now. There was no use thinking on what might be, only on what he could do now.  
  
And it began with the migration from Dunland to Ered Luin.


	2. Revelation (1)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bofur, Dwalin, and ones

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short but I hope you like it :) I've been having a hard time motivating myself for fic writing lately );

 

"Oi, Bofur! C'mere, join us. I 'ave some friends here who want ta thank you for the meal."

 

"'s much as I'd love to socialize with fine, upstanding gentledwarves such as yerselves, I can't talk now."

 

Dwalin raised an eyebrow, getting up to follow Bofur into the feeding tent. "Bofur Broadbeam can't talk now, eh? Is it time?"

 

"Time fer what?" Bofur asked bewilderedly.

 

"The end of the world! Why, that must be it. Th' only reason you of all dwarrows can't stop to _talk."_

"Aye, away with ye," Bofur said dryly, punching Dwalin in the arm. "Some of us have more important things ta do than engage in idle chatter."

 

"You've somethin' on yer mind then?" Dwalin said knowingly, downing an ale with ease.

 

Bofur sighed. "You could say that."

 

More earnestly than his previous tone, Dwalin said, dropping his voice, "Aye? What is it, then?"

 

The miner took a deep breath before answering.

 

"I saw my one."

 

"... well that's fantastic!"

 

"It should've been. But he didn' remember me at all. Like I weren't really there, standin' right in front o' him."

 

Dwalin frowned. "What kind of mad dwarrow did Mahal saddle ye with?"

 

"A nobleman, whose name I never had th' chance ta learn. We found each other the very night before Smaug sacked Erebor. Haven't seen 'im since, and he dinnae even recognize me. His eyes were filled with so much grief, it was like he wouldn'a known his own mother."

 

"That's no excuse, though, if he's yer one."

 

Bofur laughed. "Quite the friend you're turning out ta be."

 

"I'm a grander friend than ya think. That's why I want you ta show me the dwarrow who's been eatin' away at yer heart."

 

"Oh no, no no, I don't want ye ta hurt him, Dwalin, I just want him ta remember me."

 

"I'm not goin' ta hurt him, you fool. I'm goin' ta see if I know him, so you can have a name to his face next time ya see him," Dwalin explained.

 

Bofur was silent for a moment, but the smile that lit up his face spoke volumes.

 

"I take it back. Ye're a grand friend indeed," he said.

 

"You'd best not forget it," Dwalin said as they departed from the tent.

 

 ----

 

They wandered the encampment, Bofur leading Dwalin back to where he'd last seen the noble, biting his lip and quivering with nerves. He was excited yes, and scared. Scared of what, he couldn't yet say, but there was surely something. There was always something.

 

"There he is," Bofur said, his breath hitching, when he saw his one amidst a small crowd, speaking to a dwarrow with gray hair flecked with white.

 

"Which one?" Dwalin asked.

 

"The one with the dark hair, ye daft fool."

 

"Oh aye, that's helpful."

 

Bofur sighed, pointing to where he was. "Darkest hair, the one wearing gray, speaking to th' older dwarrow over there."

 

"I... no, ye can't mean that one."

 

"Well I don't bloody well know, do I?" Bofur said impatiently, worried that the dwarrow would be gone before Dwalin could spot him.

 

"There!" said Bofur as the two dwarrows in his vision said goodbye. "The one who saluted--"

 

"My brother," said Dwalin.

 

"What?"

 

"The older one, gray haired, shorter than the others... that's my brother."

 

"Yes, yes, that's the one. Well not the one, no, I mean, he's the one who was speakin' ta--"

 

"Yer joking."

 

"What?" Bofur paused.

 

"This is a joke. You're joking with me."

 

"Dwalin, what're you saying? Of course I'm not jokin', not fer this! This is serious, you right fool!" Bofur said, his voice straining as his eyes followed his one until he disappeared into the tents. "He's gone now, but you saw him, right?"

 

Dwalin said nothing.

 

"Right, Dwalin?"

 

"Bofur..."

 

"What? What's that look for?"

 

"Are ya sure he's yer one?"

 

"Sure as I'm alive in front of ye, of course I'm sure. What? How bad is it?" Bofur braced himself for some terrible news, though he knew not what, watching Dwalin's expression shift.

 

"His name... his name is... Mahal help me, it was you, wasn't it?"

 

"What was me?"

 

"He said," Dwalin said slowly. "He said you died... in dragon fire, in his quarters."

 

“I…” Bofur’s eyes widened, and he reached behind him to find a handhold, slumping against a raised boulder. “No, I survived. I heard the screams and ran out. Did he… he came back for me?” Bofur looked to Dwalin, who nodded gravely.

 

“He came back to a half-collapsed room,” Dwalin said, “burnin’ all the way through. I don’ think it ever occurred to him that you might’ve escaped.”

 

“I was asleep,” Bofur whispered. “He left me asleep. He must’ve thought the worst.”

 

“He did.”

 

"You know him, then?" Bofur said, his eyes desperate as he got up.

 

"Yes, fer a very long time now."

 

"I... I escaped the rooms... escaped Erebor with my brother and cousin. I didn't die there."

 

"He doesn't know that," Dwalin said, his hands clenching and his tone desperate.

 

"Dwalin, what's his name?"

 

"His name?" Dwalin laughed bitterly. "Ya know it already. Thorin, son of Thrain, son of Thror, called Oakenshield. Crown prince of Erebor."

 

Bofur reeled. 


	3. Sing me a tale

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sadness and joy.

"I'm not joking. Wouldn'a come ta you if I were. Yer a humorless old clod." 

 

"Ach, ye're mad! I've a made friends with a madman." 

 

"Dwalin!" Bofur near shouted, grabbing the guard by his beefy arm. "Look me right in th' eye and tell me I'm lyin'. Tell me I'm not tellin' you the entire truth of me mind and heart." 

 

Dwalin paused, staring at Bofur begrudgingly and sighing. "But you said yerself he didn' recognize ya. How could that even happen, if he really is yer One?"

 

"That's what I'm tryin' ta find out." 

 

"Yer a fool." 

 

"Ask him yerself if ya don't believe me, y'hardheaded dwarrow. Ask him!" He shook him by both arms, his desperation showing where he was joking only moments earler. "I need... Dwalin... please. I need ta know why. I can't--I--I need ta know." 

 

Dwalin looked just about ready to refuse, but his eyes spoke volumes of regret and pity, and before long, with a heavy sigh and a shake of his head, he acquiesced.

 

* * *

 

 

Sometime later, Dwalin found himself wringing his hands together as he entered the tent. Thorin stood by the table, studying maps and plotting what Dwalin knew to be the course home. 

 

Balin greeted his brother, and for a moment, Dwalin thought he wouldn't have the opportunity. But the elder was taking his leave, and once he was out the flap, Dwalin found that he had no more excuses. 

 

“I am reluctant to return to Dunland, to be honest,” said Thorin when Dwalin came along. “After the last winter, times have been hard. The Men would sooner drive us out than welcome us back.”

 

“Aye,” Dwalin said uncertainly. “We may need to find a new home soon.” 

 

“Ill news, but something we must consider now.” 

 

“Thorin...”

 

“Hm.”

 

Dwalin took a breath. “You should rest. Yer father is in the healer's tents, finally sleepin'. You, on the other hand...”

 

“I have slept, Dwalin,” Thorin said, though the heavy rings under his eyes said otherwise. When he saw the doubt on his friend's face, he shook his head and added, “I never said I was sleeping well. But I've slept.” 

 

“It was not a battle we'll soon forget,” Dwalin said gravely. “I've not seen this much death since...” 

 

He trailed off, waiting for Thorin to make the connection. It wasn't a long wait. 

 

“Aye. Dragons, orcs... it seems not to matter where we look, we'll always find death.” 

 

“We still cannae forget the life, though,” said Dwalin. “We should be grateful for it.” 

 

“Grateful,” Thorin spat. Just as he did, his expression softened. “Grateful.”

 

“Yes, grateful,” Dwalin said, his eyes clouding over. “I lost my da', Thorin. I lost friends. I know grief. But I dinnae lose my brother. I am, against all things... grateful.” 

 

“You are right, my friend,” Thorin said. “It is difficult to be, though, when we've lost so much.” 

 

“Thorin,” Dwalin said. “I have ta ask you somethin', but I don't know how to ask.” 

 

“Just ask, my friend,” Thorin said, though his eyes were stormy in the wait. 

 

“When Erebor was sacked,” Dwalin said, “you told me once that you... you lost yer One in the dragonfire.” 

 

Pain crossed the young prince's features, and he shut his eyes for a moment before nodding. 

 

“What of it?” he said, his voice shaking. 

 

“What if... what if yer One had escaped? Survived? Would you... would ya look for them if you knew fer sure they were still alive?”

 

Thorin was expressive—Dwalin had known him long enough to know that. But at that very moment, he wasn't sure if he was livid, or if he had only just considered the possibility. Either way, his eyes were open wide, blue orbs piercing in their stare. 

 

“It... there is too much,” Thorin said mechanically, taking a rattling breath before continuing. “There is too much to do. Dwalin, I have no time to think about myself anymore. Even if he had survived, I couldn't waste my time searching for him. I do not have the luxury of time for my own desires,” said Thorin. “There are more important things to do than waste my time on empty hopes and thoughtless dreams.” 

 

He was bitter, his tone biting, and Dwalin knew well enough not to push the topic. He seemed set on his decision, but he would not meet Dwalin's eyes even as he said it with such finality. 

 

Later, when Dwalin came to see Bofur, all he could do was shake his head. 

 

Later, Bofur sat by Bifur's cot for an hour, before leaving the tent to sit on a boulder and cry until he had no more tears to shed. 

 

* * *

 

 

A day later, Bifur woke up. The smile that had been missed upon his cousin's face returned, and what remained of the survivors marched back home under Thrain and Thorin's lead. 

 

* * *

 

 

The return to Dunland was not a happy one. The Dunlendings had all but driven them out, wild men that they were, and the dwarves once of Erebor found themselves wandering once more. 

 

Still, the ill turn had not dampened the spirits of some. They had taken their time to mourn for the dead, and over the course of their travels, they took their time to celebrate the return of their loved ones. 

 

There was singing, drinking, dancing, feasting, and the telling of tales by the fire. Their heartiness was kept to the safer roads, and so the nights that they were allowed to celebrate, they did so with such vim and vigor that even Thorin himself could not help but be brought along by their unabashed relief and their utter joy. 

 

There was much drinking to be had, done in intervals to keep the guards wary and the caravans moving even if a fourth of their companions were dead asleep by morning. 

 

Thorin had not taken part in it until now, when Thrain all but threatened to force Thorin into the festivities. To prove that he wasn't completely incapable of celebration, Thorin drank, and sat close as the dwarrows began to play and sing the joyous tunes of old and new. 

 

One such tune was unfamiliar to him, and Thorin found himself stomping his foot from where he sat as the dwarrow who sang in lead danced by the fire. 

 

“The Man in the Moon was drinking deep,

and the cat began to wail;

A dish and a spoon on the table danced,

The cow in the garden madly pranced,

and the little dog chased his tail.

The Man in the Moon took another mug,

and then rolled beneath his chair;

And there he dozed and dreamed of ale,

Till in the sky the stars were pale,

and dawn was in the air!” 

 

The dwarrows and dwarrowdams cheered him on, jeered and laughed as the singing dwarf bowed here and there, the hat on his head forming the most ridiculous shadow down across where Thorin sat. 

 

Thorin considered the shadow, his wits not entirely about him. Only when he realized that the shadow was growing did he look up and find the dwarrow approaching, the campfire casting a heavy shadow over his face. 

 

He collapsed on the wide stone Thorin had taken for his seat, a breathy laugh on his lips. 

 

“That was a good, hearty tune,” Thorin complimented. 

 

“Aye, a fine inn song,” said the other, “but not so good a dance ta go with it.” 

 

“It was... energetic.” 

 

“Ha! That's a kind way of puttin' it.”

 

Thorin looked to the dwarf and handed him his flask, allowing the other a swig of good dwarven ale. Only then did he get a good look at the dwarf's face, and for a moment, his heart skipped a beat. 

 

“We... we've met before,” Thorin blurted out, the drink loosing his tongue. The dwarrow took another swig, eying Thorin thoughtfully. The sides of his eyes crinkled, and he seemed to consider something for a moment before shaking his head. “No, no, I can't say we've met before. Although it is a shame, for a fine dwarrow with such good taste in music, to have gone for so long without the honor of my presence,” he said in good humor. 

 

Thorin smiled, and the dwarf beside him laughed. It was infectious, and soon, Thorin found himself laughing right along. 

 

“It has been so long since I've had such a laugh. Must be the drink,” Thorin said, his own humor much improved. 

 

“Oh, and not the company? I'm wounded!” 

 

Thorin chuckled. “The company is not bad. Tell me, what is your name?” 

 

The other seemed to hesitate, but eventually held a hand out to grasp. “Bofur, of the clan Broadbeam.” 

 

“It is good to meet you, Bofur,” Thorin said, grasping his arm. The grip warmed him in the way the drink did, for some reason he couldn't quite grasp. 

 

“And you...”

 

“Thorin.”

 

“Oakenshield?” Bofur said, his expression hidden in the flicker of the fire's shadows. 

 

“Aye.”

 

“The prince!”

 

“No better than any other dwarrow here, I assure you.” 

 

They settled into a comfortable sort of companionship, and Bofur found another song in him for the occasion. 

 

“Sit by the firelight's glow

Tell us an old tale we know

Tell of adventures strange and rare

Never to change

Ever to share

Stories we tell will cast their spell

Now and for always.”

 

Thorin closed his eyes and let himself drift, breathing softly as Bofur sang, his voice soulful and sweet. 

 

“Sing me the tale of dwarrows in the wild

Brave and bold

Tired and cold. 

Hardy as stone and ever as strong,

Never to lay or give in.

Year after year, we persevere,

Now and for always.”

 

Bofur paused for a moment, and softer, he continued, the words all his own now. 

 

“Sing me a story of Thorin, son of Thrain...” 

 

Thorin opened his eyes, but Bofur wasn't looking at him. He was looking at the fire, now, singing the words as they came. 

 

“Strong and kind, sharp of mind. 

Oakenshield raised, a battle he won

Fighting to take back our land. 

Wouldn't retreat, 

Won't see defeat

Now and for always.”

 

Bofur smiled at him, and Thorin ached. 

 

“Sit by the firelight's glow

Tell us an old tale we know

Tell of adventures strange and rare

Never to change

Ever to share

Stories we tell will cast their spell

Now and for always.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The first song is an excerpt from Bilbo's inn song, with the "Man in the Moon" (or in the Musical, the Cat and the Moon), and the second song is based on the Lord of the Rings Musical's "Now and for always." Listen to it while you read the lyrics, it will be beautiful ;)


	4. Cowardice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Thorin knows, but nothing happens, and the dwarves of Erebor settle in Ered Luin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy New Year!

Luck was on the side of Durin's folk, as many of the Broadbeams (the clan of which Bofur's family had sprung from) and Firebeards had settled there long ago, a small but thriving community that settled north of Little Lune, the river which deviated from the River Lune and would soon pass into the Gulf, southward, where lay the ruins of Belegost, the once mighty fortress of the dwarves.

 

"The Broadbeams were the lords of Belegost, many years ago," Balin said as they surveyed the territory. The Firebeards and the Broadbeams greeted the Longbeards with fervour, and Thorin bit his tongue at the sight of their humble abodes. They were little more than petty craftsmen now, labouring in the villages of men. But then, so was he, now. He had no right to think any less of the dwarves who welcomed them.

 

And anyway, Bofur was of that clan.

 

Bofur had been a comfort to Thorin these past months, though he would not be the first to admit it. He found out that the jovial singer was a toymaker, found it through his trade while they traveled, making a good bit of coin where he was while they still weren't settled.

 

His skill with woodwork was remarkable—at least, to Thorin, it was. The children loved the little carved pieces that Bofur made, and if he weren’t trying to make ends meet, Thorin was sure that Bofur would have given them away for free.

 

The villages of men they passed had enough children, and many of those children took a liking to Bofur immediately. He was amiable, charming, and his good humour was infectious. More than once, Thorin found himself smiling when the toymaker did.

 

Not to say that he was able to spend much time with the other at all, not with his responsibility to his father. While Thrain was busy writing up agreements between their clan and the dwarf lords already there, Thorin and the Fundinsons were tasked with finding a good place for their people to settle.

 

This was what had led them to the riverside, which was close enough to the mountain settlement that the Broadbeams and Firebeards had created years past.

 

“There’s good mining in these mountains,” said Dwalin.

 

“Says the warrior who’s only ever used a pickaxe to disembowel orcs,” said Thorin.

 

“I dinnae say it,” Dwalin defended. “Bofur did.”

 

“Bofur? What does he know of mining?”

 

“Just about everythin’, seein’ as he’s been one all his life,” Dwalin returned. “Or didn’ you know tha’ he’d been minin’ Erebor ever since he was a wee lad? Before, I mean.”

 

Thorin stopped in his tracks.

 

A miner. An infectious smile that pierced through the clouded memories he had of that day—a memory he’d long since tried (and failed) to purge completely.

 

In his anger, all he could recall was dragon fire, and his lover’s face was too shrouded in shadow, too briefly sighted, to be remembered so well.

 

“Thorin?” Balin called, shocking the prince out of his reverie.

 

“This,” Thorin said, “this looks to be a good place.”

 

* * *

 

 

“No cousin, that’s not fer eatin’! Oh, Mahal, what’re ya doin’? You’ll hurt yerself!”

 

Bofur was at wit’s end with Bifur, though he tried so very hard to be patient. He didn’t grow up with nobles, so he didn’t really understand much of Ancient Khuzdul (which the healer, Oin, said he was speaking, though Oin had terrible hearing and wasn’t around all the time to translate anyway), and he was taking time to learn Iglishmek… which wasn’t of much use, either, since Bifur wasn’t interested in communicating in it for everything.

 

It was frustrating, to say the least. Bifur had always been the one to take care of them when he and Bombur were young—more a brother than a cousin, really. And now, it was Bofur's turn to take care of him, and a fine job of it he was doing, sitting there while Bifur chewed on flowers and leaves.

 

“I hope those aren't poisonous,” Bofur sighed.

 

He stared at the whittling knife in his hand, the one he'd taken right out of Bifur's. His cousin seemed to calm down as he ate, and Bofur took a piece of wood and carved, to calm his nerves.

 

Bifur stopped, reaching over to take the wood Bofur was working over. Tiredly, Bofur handed it over, but when Bifur gestured for the knife, Bofur withheld it.

 

“No!” he said, but Bifur insisted. He didn't try to take it—for which Bofur was grateful—but he kept wanting to take it. Eventually, Bofur gave in, and handed the knife over.

 

Immediately, Bifur began to work.

 

Bofur watched, his eyes wide and wondering, as his cousin—who had yet to show even a shadow of his former self—began to carve.

 

He was calm, he was content, and he even hummed a familiar tune under his breath as he worked.

 

And though the end result was nothing Bofur could identify, he took it with a smile and a great laugh, another miracle to add to the few he'd experienced the past months.

 

* * *

 

One of the other little miracles Bofur was thankful for was the increasing amount of time he was spending around his One.

 

It was difficult not to think of Thorin in such terms, so he eventually stopped trying. In the taverns of Ered Luin, he oft enjoyed drinks with Dwalin, and sometimes, Thorin would be along, sitting there quietly and enjoying the activity around him.

 

At best, Bofur was self-conscious. Thorin was such a regal figure, so quiet and proud, every bit the nobleman his people knew him to be.

 

And what was Bofur? Not even a miner, not until the tunnels were open for work—just a silly dwarrow who had nothing to offer apart from a joke or a drunken song.

 

Although the fact that Thorin seemed to at least enjoy his drunken songs lightened his heart a bit.

 

Bofur had long since stopped wishing for recognition. He supposed it was better this way—Thorin had his responsibilities. He was a prince, to be a king one day, and One or no One, he wouldn't want a husband in a no-name miner.

 

Didn't stop Dwalin from teasing, all the same.

 

Bofur gave as good as he got from the doughty warrior, speaking often of a thief that he knew had caught Dwalin's eye since they settled in the Blue Mountains.

 

And Bofur couldn't blame Dwalin for a moment. Nori may not have been the classic dwarvish beauty that his elder brother Dori was, but he was effectively more seductive than the fussy head of the family, and that Dwalin never seemed to be able to catch him lent to the appeal.

 

“If he were Dwalin's One,” Bombur had said wisely, “I doubt the clothead would have seen it through the rage and the chasin'.”

 

“If Nori were Dwalin's One then he'd jus' as likely condemn Dwalin ta chase him to the ends of the earth, if he has his way,” Bofur said mirthfully.

 

Talks of Ones used to depress Bofur to no end, but at this point, he was only grateful for the time he had with the dwarrows he loved—even if one of those dwarrows didn't know it.

 

* * *

 

 

One night, Bofur found Thorin at the pub, alone, which was surprising, since Dwalin had to drag him there most days for him to come at all.

 

“Dwalin had to handle a case,” Thorin explained when Bofur voiced his thoughts, slipping into the seat in front of him.

 

“And you came here, all the same?”

 

“My... There is no one at home,” said Thorin, shaking his head. “My father left.”

 

“I'm sorry,” Bofur said quietly, not knowing what else to say.

 

“He had a duty, he said. A mission. I couldn't have stopped him from doing what he needed to do. He named me...” Thorin's breath caught. “... He named me king, in his stead, while he's away. King in exile, King of the Longbeards of Ered Luin.”

 

“King of all dwarves of Erebor,” Bofur said gently. “And I know you'll do a fine job of it.”

 

Thorin leaned back in his seat, and only then did Bofur see the faint red in his cheeks—the signs of too much drink, and an empty pint of ale that he suspected had been filled one too many times.

 

“It's too much,” Thorin whispered, barely audible above the noise of the pub.

 

“Come on now,” said Bofur. “I think ye've had enough for tonight.”

 

He held his hand out to Thorin's, and the prince—king now, Bofur corrected—took it readily.

 

They walked back together, not a small distance, but not too far that they couldn't see the lights of their little settlement near the foot of the mountains.

 

“I'm keeping you,” Thorin said suddenly.

 

“Ah, no,” Bofur said, shaking his head. “The company I was keepin' wasn't so much interesting as it was full of drunkards already. I wasn't much in the mood for their conversation anyway.”

 

“What was it about?” Thorin asked, his interest mild and asking more out of respect than anything.

 

“Ones,” Bofur said, shrugging. “And other such things.”

 

“Do you have a One?”

 

Bofur clenched his jaw, but kept walking anyway, not giving Thorin any indication that he was affected.

 

“I did.”

 

“What happened?”

 

“He... the dragon.”

 

Thorin was silent, and for a while, Bofur didn't know how to continue.

 

“Did the dragon take him?” Thorin asked eventually, filling the silence.

 

“Aye,” Bofur said softly. “But... well, the dragon didn't kill 'im.”

 

Thorin raised his eyebrows questioningly.

 

“The dragon took him,” Bofur began, explaining, “Took his love. Took his home. Gave 'im grief. Grief blinds, y'know. It wounds so deeply that people forget.” He took a breath. “He forgot me.”

 

Thorin said nothing, and Bofur wondered what he was thinking.”

 

“How could anyone forget about their One?” Thorin wondered quietly.

 

“As I said, grief. It's more powerful than anyone really knows. Thasswhy I never let it take me, if I can help it,” Bofur explained. “I don' want to be like my One—not seeing what's right in front of me. Not taking love where it is, waitin' to be taken.”

 

“... What happened to him?” asked Thorin.

 

“He's still around,” Bofur said, smiling.

 

“And he's never come back to you?”

 

“He has a duty. A mission,” Bofur said, echoing Thorin's words. “And I'm patient.”

 

Now the pull Thorin felt, he knew wasn't imagined. A familiar pull, echoing in the back of his mind, dimmed by the alcohol in his system.

 

“Will you never tell him?” Thorin asked, when they came upon the settlement.

 

“When his mission is done,” said Bofur, “maybe I will.”

 

If Thorin was braver, he would have followed Bofur into his home, after he said his uncertain goodbyes.

 

If Thorin was braver, things might have turned out differently that night.

 

If Thorin was braver, he would have asked Bofur if he could ever forgive him for forgetting him. 


	5. Company

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Empty beds filled.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *drops porn and runs*
> 
> Also, this is the second to the last chapter for this part of the series :) The next story may come soon, god be willing (and thesis be passed). 
> 
> Warnings and such for sex and Bofur's dirty mouth :3 Keeping it rated T since it's PG-15 at best.

A year passed, and Thorin grew wearier and wearier—of a lonely house with no one in it (his father was gone, and his sister lived with her husband, a good choice as Thorin was far from decent company even on his best days), of working on substandard metals at makeshift forges for men who paid them less than they deserved (but as much as they needed), of the guilt that plagued him every time he looked at the dwarrow he knew, for sure, that he loved (by the grace of Mahal himself, though he was too blind to see it at first).

 

It was a blessing that the few lights in his life (his sister, her sons, Bofur himself and his family, the sons of Fundin who Thorin trusted and loved as kin) seemed to come together on the days he felt at his worst. They ate together in an inn one night, Bofur striving not to get drunk (though no one could fault him for being tipsy, at best) and Dwalin whipping out his fiddle to play a jaunty tune. 

 

The boys, Fili and Kili, took to the floor to dance, and a few passing Men and dwarves gave them coppers in reward. As the night progressed, Bofur eventually took out his flute, and played to Dwalin's fiddle, and Dis lit up and laughed, and in all this, Thorin was warmed. 

 

“Why bless my beard, I cannae believe my eyes. Is that a smile? But nah, it's Thorin Oakenshield's face. How could a smile be on Thorin's face? And so big, too!” 

 

Thorin snorted, elbowing Bofur in the ribs when the dwarf took the seat beside him, all but nestling into the space between Thorin's shoulder and the wall behind them, his head lolling, his cheeks red and his shoulders shaking with laughter. 

 

“I'll thank you to remember that I am perfectly capable of smiling,” Thorin said. 

 

“Aye, and a good thing, too. Ye have a wonderful smile. Good that it don' go to waste.” 

 

Thorin chuckled, returning to his drink, though a deep breath brought him the scent of the miner resting on his shoulder, so close and so deliciously warm that Thorin had to force down the rest of his drink to keep from saying anything that would give him away. 

 

He was usually so good at hiding his feelings, but Bofur weakened him. Softened his hardened features and his stony shoulders. 

 

“Any news, then?” Bofur asked softly. He often asked after Thrain, if only to bear the burden Thorin was carrying, worrying and wondering after his father night after night. 

 

“None. And I doubt there will ever be,” Thorin answered gravely. He was startled by a slap to the arm by a gloved hand. 

 

“Oi! None of that now. Y'won't get anywhere with that kind o' attitude. Haven't you considered that maybe yer father found wot he was lookin' fer?” 

 

“I've barely an inkling of what he was looking for, let alone how long it might take him to find it,” Thorin sighed. “Perhaps it shall be longer still.” 

 

“Long enough ta give him an earful when he comes back,” Bofur said wryly. 

 

Thorin's mouth quirked up in a half smile. “Oh? And do you think the King of Durin's Folk would take such an earful from anyone?” 

 

“I'll trust ye like me enough ta keep me from gettin' beheaded,” Bofur said, winking conspiratorially. 

 

“Aye,” Thorin said, chuckling as he found warmth in his drink. They were full from their supper, and the boys were tired, drowsing enough that Dis bade Thorin goodnight and went home, accompanied by Dwalin, acting as both guard and sitter, carrying Fili when the dwarfling was too tired to walk. 

 

“Don't ye get lonely?” Bofur asked when he walked by Thorin on the way back to their own homes. “Stayin' in that empty house all by yerself?” 

 

“I have Dis and my nephews,” said Thorin. “I see them nearly every day.”

 

“And every night ye come home to an empty house and an empty bed,” Bofur said. 

 

“I'm not one to vie for company when I can help it,” Thorin pointed out. 

 

“Aye, but even the quietest souls feel lonely. Haven't you ever thought of spendin' the night with yer family?” Bofur asked. 

 

“I am...” Thorin hesitated. “I do not wish for my father to return to an empty house,” he said. 

 

“Tha's all well and good, but ye don't need to be alone doing it meanwhile. Ask yer nephews to stay the night. They'll love to spend time with their uncle.” 

 

“You seem to care very much about this,” Thorin said, going for derisive, though his tone was closer to hopeful than anything. 

 

“There's no harm in it,” Bofur said softly. “Wantin' company. There's no harm...” He trailed off when they arrived at Thorin's door. Thorin looked at the silhouette cast in the moonlight by Bofur and his ridiculous hat, and when the toymaker lifted his face, Thorin could see the red in his round cheeks—from the drinking, his mind supplied, though he imagined something else entirely. 

 

“Oh curse me,” Bofur exclaimed, and he crossed the gate, stomping over to where Thorin stood by the door. 

 

“Let me in,” Bofur demanded, and Thorin stared at him, his eyes wide, until he gathered himself enough to unlock the door to the house. 

 

They crossed the threshold, but before Thorin could light a lantern or candle, he was pushed into the wall. Had he not known it to be Bofur, he would have struggled, but as it was, he held his hands up, and listened to Bofur's desperate words. 

 

“Tell me to go, and I'll go. Tell me you cannae do this, and I'll leave ye, I won't ever bother you again.”

 

Bofur kissed him, then, and Thorin froze. 

 

It was joy and memory, and it came rushing back like a storm wind, crashing like a wave. Thorin tangled his fingers in Bofur's hair, and gripped him by the back of the head when he made to pull back. Thorin didn't let go, kissed back and kissed him again and again like Bofur was his air, and he couldn't take him in enough. 

 

“Company?” Thorin said breathlessly when they finally parted, a line of spittle trailing between them and falling away. 

 

“As good as any,” Bofur said uncertainly, his eyes imploring. 

 

Thorin cupped his face with both hands and kissed him again, soft mouth yielding beneath his own. 

 

“Better than,” Thorin said when they parted from that, and from there it was the tugging of clothes in the dark, touching and groping and pushing and pulling until by some chance, they reached Thorin's bedroom, where his bed was barely wide enough for two—though they managed by falling on top of each other, laughing at the state they were in. 

 

Thorin's laugh was exquisite, full-bodied and joyful, and so rare that Bofur had to kiss him again for it, and for many more reasons besides that he could no longer recall—whether it was from the night's drinks or from the sheer number of kisses—themselves making Bofur drunk with lust and joy. 

 

It was all familiar, played as new, for neither dwarf knew that the other remembered their first night making love, clear as day, and sought to replicate every sensation—the feel of a tongue against skin, the scrape of a beard sharpening soft kisses, and strong groping hands stroking everywhere they could reach. 

 

Deep into the night, they found rest, wrapped tightly around each other. 

 

In the morning, the illusion was shattered, if not the sweetness of morning kisses and the pleasurable throb between thighs. Bofur watched for any sign Thorin meant to kick him out, to drive him off and never see him again—thereby taking back what hours Bofur wasted in his life. 

 

He waited for the bitter parting, the ruined chance to ever speak of One love to Thorin—but it never came. Thorin seemed reluctant to meet his eyes, but when the King in Exile kissed his hands and asked to be pardoned, Bofur learned that it was his own shame that kept their eyes from meeting, and not any anger against him. 

 

It was a great relief, and Bofur laughed and smacked Thorin in the arm for being so daft, and spoke quite loudly, and lewdly, of how he'd like a repeat of the night's pounding, if Thorin was willing. 

 

Of course, Bofur meant another night, another time, though Thorin seemed perfectly satisfied to do it at that very moment, and who was Bofur to argue? 

 

By mid-morning, Bofur was sated, his arse dripping and never more relaxed in his life, as Thorin kissed a path down his back and kneaded knots from his shoulders. 

 

Bofur was inclined to make some joke about kings and scepters, perhaps swords, but thought better of it when Thorin turned him over and kissed him, deep and soft, working his mouth with his own tenderly, almost lovingly. 

 

Bofur pulled away. No, this wasn't like before, where they knew each other to be two halves made whole. This was just pleasure taken between friends, and he shouldn't think too deeply on it. 

 

Thorin wondered if he'd done anything wrong, for Bofur pulled away, looking down with his brows furrowed thoughtfully. Perhaps he had been wrong to kiss him that way—pouring all his One love, his devotion and longing and his repentance into it. Perhaps Bofur had been overwhelmed. 

 

Perhaps Bofur didn't love him. 

 

It pained him to think it, but what did he expect? He was a coward, a crownless king, a king without a kingdom, and a stain on Mahal's creation as the arrogant longbeard who forgot his own One. If Bofur no longer loved him, no longer waited for him, then all the better for him. He didn't deserve to be saddled with such a shameful One. Thorin had failed him, after all. 

 

He shouldn't have hoped to return to what they once were—if only for a night—and what they could have been. Thorin had ensured an end to that, and he had no one else to blame but himself. 

 

“Oi now,” said Bofur softly raising Thorin's chin. “I can see the cogs runnin' round in yer head. What're you thinkin'?” 

 

“It's... nothing,” Thorin answered quietly. 

 

“Well I'm thinkin', oh, well, here I am, bare-arse naked and well-fucked by the hero-king Thorin Oakenshield, so why is he frownin' like a fool took his ale? Am I a bad lay? Surely not. P'raps he's a bad lay! Or at least he thinks so. Well I and my arse can tell you right now that that's not true—ha!” Bofur laughed when Thorin shoved him in mock anger, his shoulders shaking in silent laughter and his teeth bared as they wrestled between the sheets, rolling right off the bed and crashing into the floor. 

 

“I wish I could keep you,” Thorin sighed into Bofur's hair. 

 

“Well I dunno now. After all, I am a very busy dwarrow. I could write ya in for Tuesdays... Maybe Fridays? Hell, everyday would be fine by me. Although I do need use of me legs, so p'raps everyday would be too much for my poor arse.”

 

Thorin laughed. 

 

“Ye think I'm jokin'? We'll see who's laughin' when ye have to carry me all the way home from 'ere. The way I look, they'll think ye savaged me. Tell you the truth, thassnot so far off.” 

 

They lay there on the floor for a very long time, until their stomachs railed against them and they went for a very late breakfast (or an early lunch), sunny and satisfied and happier than they'd been in ages. 

 


End file.
